Coming Up Tails
by misqueue
Summary: Kurt and Blaine are finally living together in NY, but it's not going well. Assumes a reconciliation sometime after season 4, set 08/2013. Title is nabbed predictably from Coldplay's "The Scientist". Written for luckyjak's prompt: a theatre, guilt and/or shame, red.


"Come on, Kurt, no one's going to appreciate the difference between these two patterns, and the price difference is enough— I mean, it's just _wallpaper_."

"I'll appreciate the difference," Kurt snapped. "And you should too. It's not just wallpaper, Blaine. It's our home."

Blaine jammed his hands into his hair and turned away. Exasperation perforated his tone when he gritted out, "Jesus, why are being so damned _precious_ over this? Who the hell are you trying to impress?"

Kurt had blinked for a moment at Blaine, mouth agape. All he'd been able to do was spit out a half sarcastic, half disbelieving, "_Excuse me_?"

Blaine spun and pointed at the samples on the table. "Look at them. This is absurd. I don't understand why you're being so stubborn."

And that was the end of it, because Kurt had already told him why: the cheap one was both wrong—too kitschy—and it was poor quality for a bathroom; they'd be replacing it after just a year of regular exposure to shower steam. Then Kurt was abruptly angry, red hot and blinding: this _was_ their home. For all the years he'd daydreamed of making a home with Blaine in New York, it had been of something wonderful. "Well, I don't understand why you're being such a _fucking asshole_," he retorted, and he stormed out; whatever Blaine might've said in response was lost in the thunder of blood in Kurt's ears. He made damned sure he was _precious_ about the way he slammed the door.

.:.:.

Kurt walks, takes the subway to Hell's Kitchen, and walks some more, heading on instinct toward the Theater District. His phone vibrates from his pocket every few minutes but he ignores it. As he walks his anger bleeds away, pounded into the pavement with each step. It's replaced by a sick weight in the pit of his stomach. Did he really call Blaine a 'fucking asshole'?

They've been fighting more since Blaine arrived this summer and they moved to the new apartment. It'd be easy to blame the stress of moving. Or he could blame their conflicts on their modestly budgeted renovating and decorating of the new place into something livable and aesthetically inoffensive. And there's the inescapable humid heat and smell of the city in late summer since they've had to have their windows open to let out the acrid paint fumes. Surely that makes them both irritable. But the more frequent and rancorous the arguments become, the more Kurt doubts it's just the external stuff.

When Kurt takes the time to slow down and think about it, he suspects Blaine may be feeling misplaced or out of control coming into Kurt's world, and Kurt hasn't been as reassuring and attentive as he could be. As he promised he would be. He's been doing it again already, taking Blaine for granted, failing at his promises. So he can't really blame Blaine for lashing out instead of bottling it up. God knows he'd rather have Blaine argue with him than fuck a stranger. Which is a horrible, unfair thought to entertain, because Kurt knows it's not going to happen again. He hates that he still thinks about it sometimes.

Maybe it's just that they both want, so badly, for this to work out the second time, the fear that it won't is driving them both a little crazy—crazy and crazier until it ends up being some kind of self-fulfilling disaster. After all, he did call his boyfriend a 'fucking asshole', and Kurt knows that's not okay. It doesn't help. They can't do it this way and succeed. He feels awful.

Kurt stops walking. He's too hot, sweating and cultivating a headache since he brought neither sunglasses nor hat. And the city smells even worse out in the humidity: asphalt and exhaust and garbage cling like a greasy film in his nostrils. The day is just too saturated with real and reminders of personal failure. The grime and guilt is seeping into his skin with the muggy heat, curdling him from the inside. Kurt looks about for some respite and spots the boxy shape of the Ziegfeld Theatre several yards up the street. It promises air conditioning, better smells, and the escape of fiction. There's the new action flick, _Red 2_, playing. Maybe his head will feel clearer after watching Helen Mirren shoot bad guys.

A chilly gust of popcorn scent welcomes Kurt as he pushes through the wide glass doors of the theater. His palm lingers on the cool shape of the cursive 'z' beneath his hand. Lets go and the door swings closed behind him, sealing out the city like an airlock. Kurt's shoulders relax as he turns his gaze up to the extravagant crystal draped chandeliers hanging in the lobby. They glint in the daylight, reflecting and refracting the crimson of the theater's carpeting. From the floor, it runs up the walls and cascades up the stairs. He buys a single ticket from the girl at the ticket office and has just twenty minutes to wait.

Once he's acquired a bottle of water at the concession stand, he decides he should check his phone and let Blaine know where he is. With all the unanswered calls to Kurt's phone, Blaine may be beginning to worry. Kurt finds a seat on a cushy sofa in the corner amongst framed memorabilia of the Zeigfeld's first incarnation as a Broadway theatre. There's some towering glass building now squatting in its old location; Kurt usually takes the time to look at what's displayed here. It's a neat little museum. But not today. There are a lot of text messages, all from Blaine. He scrolls down to find the beginning of today's:

"Pick up your phone.

"Please.

"Kurt, please answer your phone. I don't know where you've gone.

"I can't find you.

"Fine.

"Are we really doing this?

"I'm worried.

"Please answer. Or text.

"I'm so sorry, Kurt. I shouldn't have said what I said. Please, just let me know you're okay.

"You're not even reading these are you?

"God damn it, Kurt. Don't shut me out like this. I hate it. You know I do.

"Are you coming home tonight?

"Are you coming home at all?

"Talk to me, please? I'm scared.

"If you're leaving me, tell me. I'm going crazy with worry. Where ARE you?

"I'm sorry, Kurt. You must know I'm sorry.

"I feel like you're punishing me.

"You promised me you would never do that.

"I don't care if you want to call me an asshole, just don't leave me like this, not even knowing what the hell is going on.

"We can get the wallpaper you want. We'll make the budget work. I don't care. It doesn't matter.

"It's not more important than us. WE matter, Kurt.

"Please come home.

"I love you?"

Kurt stops reading because his vision is blurred with stinging tears. He takes a jagged breath; it's a terrifying stream of insight into Blaine's insecurities and the things they've been avoiding. "Shit," Kurt whispers to himself. He's really screwed up this time, and he has no idea what to do. What possible excuse could he offer for breaking another promise?

The battery indicator on his phone ticks from orange to red. "Fuck," Kurt says to himself more loudly, and he's grateful for the dampened acoustics of the carpeted walls. He hurries to type some sort of reply to Blaine, because he can't not.

To Blaine: "I'm okay, my phone is almost flat. I'm the Zeigfeld. Needed to cool off.

"We're okay. Going to watch a movie, clear my head, then I'll be home.

"Please don't worry. I'm so sorry, Blaine. We'll talk at home, okay?

"I love you too."

.:.:.

Inside the cinema, Kurt chooses a seat on the mezzanine floor. There's not many people here in the afternoon, and the space gapes around him, like he's been swallowed by an enormous velvet lined whale. The walls, the carpet, the drapery, the upholstery are unrelentingly red, but for the gold curtains of the stage and the brass railings.

The lights dim and regret gnaws at his heart. He's got to do better than this. It's not just his promises to Blaine he's broken, but the ones he's made to himself. So many times, he's vowed to himself not to be a person who hurts Blaine. There've been too many who have, too many who also said they loved him. Kurt thought he was better than them, loved Blaine better, knew him better, but apparently sweat, paint fumes, and an inability to compromise on wallpaper turns him into a verbally abusive jerk. His heart feels like it's plummeting into a pit, he's so ashamed. Amidst all the insanity, he's even been trying to save for an engagement ring. But if this is how it's going to be—if this is the best he can do? If he can't be a good partner to Blaine? He doesn't want to think about life without Blaine again. It was so much fun the first time.

He _will_ do better. The previews spin by in a blur; Kurt's not watching.

He hates that he's made Blaine feel so insecure again. And maybe, he thinks while comforting his restless fingers with the velvet of his armrests, Blaine's resenting the feeling that he still owes Kurt guilt and contrition. It's not like Kurt's been doing much to assuage that impulse lately. Not like he doesn't know how Blaine gets. He has to be candid with himself: though he is not proud of it; there are times he still finds himself irrationally mad at Blaine. Times he still thinks about Eli, and then that whole awful time floods back into his veins like poison. So he has to remind himself of what they're doing together and why, and then he forgives Blaine all over again. It's a process that requires vigilance, and it's a choice he makes because he loves Blaine, Blaine loves him, and he believes in their future together. But he's been lazy, let things fester, and too many things have remained unspoken.

The flickering light of the screen washes over Kurt, abstract and irrelevant. He closes his eyes; the conversations, the roar of engines, and the _rat-a-tat-tat_ of bullets blend into a murmur. He knew it was going to be hard when they decided to try again, but this is so much harder than he expected. They've been hurting each other, like they're scoring points in some dumb game. But this isn't a game, and at the root of it all, he wants to spend his life with Blaine as fiercely as always. He hasn't been acting like it though, and he doesn't want to be that person again. If he's punishing Blaine with some subconscious lingering resentment of his own, that's got to stop.

So he thinks about the good things. He remembers their meeting on the stairs, the first time he saw the Warblers perform, a friendship sparked over coffee; compassion and courage and friendship offered freely. And there are so many more memories of beautiful, wonderful things. Things for which he is grateful down to the marrow of his bones. Kurt spends the hours of the film remembering them all and being grateful. He vows with fresh determination that every day he will remind himself, and he will remind Blaine, of everything he's thankful for between them. It's not just something he owes Blaine; he owes it to himself. They're in this together, and hurting Blaine is an especially cruel way to self-inflict wounds.

.:.:.

When the lights come up, Kurt wipes his tears. He exits the the cinema feeling dazed but calm. His heart still twinges though; he may be at peace within himself, but Blaine is still waiting for him, probably still worrying. Kurt glares at his flat phone. He needs to go home.

As he steps out onto the street, back into the sticky heat and the street smell, the barrage of sunlight forces him to close his naked eyes. He waits, staring at the bright red inside of his eyelids, for his eyes adjust. Gingerly he opens them and takes a breath.

Blaine is there. He's standing, hands in his pockets, waiting for him. Blaine's smile is tentative, and he looks a mess, exhausted; his hair is unkempt and there're still paint splatters on his forearms and t-shirt. He's wearing sunglasses so Kurt can't read his gaze. Kurt gives a little wave, and goes over to him.

"How was the movie?" Blaine asks, turning to begin walking.

Kurt falls into step beside him and laughs, softly, "Honestly, I don't know. I didn't really pay attention."

"You've been crying," Blaine says. It's gentle.

"Yeah," Kurt says; He glances at Blaine, but he doesn't need to see Blaine's eyes to know: "So have you."

Blaine ducks his head in confirmation.

"I'm tired of fighting," Kurt says.

"So am I."

"We need to talk when we get home."

Blaine lets out a heavy breath. "We really do, Kurt."

"But..." Kurt stops walking, looks at Blaine. It's too hot for coffee, but... "May I buy you an ice cream first?"

Blaine smiles, his relief plain in the curve of his lips and the revealed glint of his teeth. "Yeah, I'd like that."

.

**the end**


End file.
